Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 1

JOHN

The gun tapped my bottom teeth, ricketing uncomfortably in my mouth for the eighth time that week. For the eighth time I blinked back tears, leaning my head back so that the couch cushions rubbed the back of my neck. For the eighth time I hummed the same tune, his tune, the one I'd heard him play at ungodly hours of the night. For the eighth time that week, my index finger wrapped around the cold trigger of my glock with finality. And for the eighth time that week, I heard him stop me.

Really now, John I've told you again and again that suicide by gun is the dullest way to go, not to mention terribly messy. Do you honestly even think at all?

I sighed softly to myself, breaking the song that had been stuck in my head for days now. I don't know what made me remember how it went, but now that I had I couldn't stop singing it. Though my song was nothing like his playing, the way his music would fill the flat with the hauntingly beautiful, mesmerizing notes that made tears prick my eyes and my brain refuse to tune it out. For once, I didn't want to stop thinking about it. But the more I did, I knew, the more I would soon cry. I didn't want to cry, not now anyway.

Setting the gun back on the table, I leaned far back into the couch despite how uncomfortable it was. Everything in this flat was uncomfortable, nothing like what I was used to back on Baker street. I couldn't bear to be in 221b again, with all of his belongings, all of his scents that stull hung in the air. Mrs.Hudson still called from time to time, and every once in a while she'd invite me to tea and I'd visit. We'd chat, I'd force a painful smile and hug and thank her before sopping back to my own empty flat.

Id had been a struggle searching for a new flat, especially with my being put-off at work. The clinic officials had officially deemed me unfit for work until my eventual recovery. "Come back whenever you're ready," they had told me. I took the laying off in silence, as I knew I would probably never recover from this, from him. When Sherlock died, I suppose you could say I died with him. It didn't take long for me to figure out how I felt about him, but it would take more than the three years he'd left me alone to recover from my own feelings, if ever.

I'd resorted to failed suicide attempts two years ago, when it was confirmed that I simply couldn't live without the man who'd made me into who I am...who I was, at least.

The brave army docter; the man who saved lives and solved cases and stuck with a sociopath despite warning; that was who Sherlock had built. I was that man no more. Seeing him jump, living a useless life without him, had broke something within me. I'd tried so hard to suppress it, to replace these feelings with an untrue, loveless relationships, just as I did when he was alive. I was with a lovely woman by the name of Mary for quite a bit before she insisted we move our relationship forward. As much as I might have cared for her, in this state I couldn't have given her what she wanted. I knew she could never replace him. So I remained alone, not really even living. It wasn't life, simply...existence.

I'm so shallow, so pathetic. Sherlock would be disappointed. The tears flowed freely now, I didn't try to stop them, though they were a reminder of how weak I was without him, along with my limp which had returned in his absence.

Suddenly, among the flurry of whispers in my head, one memory stood out as broad as day. My eyes snapped open, and I didn't care what the depression told me anymore. I grabbed my gun, shoving it back into its holster that resided on my belt. Wordlessly, I rose from my couch and headed for the door, grabbing my overcoat from its hanger as I swung the door open and left my flat. Sherlock's voice nagged me as I walked, the bitter cold stinging my eyes where the tears had streamed. I didn't care.
I suppose now was as good a time as ever to do what my therapist had told me to do since day one. For a breif moment, it was almost like I was filled with purpose. I just felt this needed to be done today, no doubt I'd just put the gun back in my mouth had I stayed at home. I wasn't sure why I suddenly cared about whether or not I killed myself, but there was something left in the last sane part of me that ticked at my brain, telling me what I needed to do. That if I did this, things might be okay. I wanted things to be okay so badly, I didn't want to miss him anymore. I wanted to heal. And though my heart still sat in my stomach, broken beyond repair, and my body was stiff with the desire to end it all, there was something driving me through this cold. There was something in the way my mind depicted Sherlock's words that made me take this walk.

I'd always been good at acting properly on hunches, a talent that was quite useful with cases. This was the first time in a while I'd felt something like it, and to be honest, it excited me just a little. It was nice to feel excited again.

I felt my memory of Sherlock shift once more in my head.

"Hold on for me," he said, "It'll be over soon." And even if he was a figment of my head, I believed in him.

I always had.

The cemetary stood out like a grey orb in the winter cold, its many tombstones propped up like the jagged teeth of the earth. Some were brand new, still glimmering in the reflective light of the snow. Others were old and worn, the names barely legible after many years of being scratched away. My boots crunched as I walked aimlessly through the rows, until I came upon the most familiar of them.

His stone still shone, as if it were still new and meaningful. To me, it was precious, but to the public, Sherlock Holmes was far past dead and therefor worthless. I was disgusted by how quickly he'd been forgotten, and I hardly spoke to anyone for that reason. I also resented the pity they looked at me with. Poor John Watson, who just couldn't let go. How dare they forget him? Who gave them the power to forget and live on while I was still haunted with his memory, incapable of living like a normal person?

I stood staring down at the headstone reading "Sherlock Holmes" for what felt like an eternity. Finally, I crouched down so I was level with his grave. I let out a deep, shaky breath, and the weight that pressed upon my body quivered. "Hey, Sherlock," I muttered. "I know it's been a while since I visited you." Saying his name stung my eyes with tears, but I promptly ignored them.

"I know you said caring is a disadvantage, and I'm painfully aware how you think sentiment is dangerous and idiotic but...ever since you...left, I just can't seem to stop it. I know you wouldn't understand, but..." The words kept dying in my throat, but I knew I had to do this. "I...I love you, Sherlock Holmes. In one way or another. I always have, I always will. You were all I really cared about, and now that you're gone I....Please, Sherlock."

My tears spilled over again now, freezing on my cheeks in the harsh cold. "Stop this," I told him, but I knew he wasn't listening. He wouldn't answer, he never did. He would laugh if he saw me now, mumbling something about the frailty of humans and their bloody emotions. "When I first came here, I asked you for a miracle. I wanted you to not be dead. I wanted you to come back, for me. I still do...but now I know that's impossible." I knew now what I had to do, and I wouldn't let anything stop me now. "I can't live without you, Sherlock, and I'm not afraid to admit it anymore. So...I can't hold on any longer. I'm lost without my detective."

A sad smile crept across my tear-streaked face, stretching my skin in a very painful way. My hand reached out, tracing the top of the headstone, and brushing off some of the snow. My heart beat frantically in my chest, and the fact that soon it would not beat at all soothed me in an odd way.

I pulled my gaze from his name for just a moment, reaching for my gun. Thank goodness there was no one around to see this, or so I thought. I let out one deep breath as I turned the gun over and over in my hand. Just as I placed the gun to properly shoot myself, I heard a loud bang right behind me, feeling a sharp pain in my lower back, and coming to realize that someone had granted my wish for me.